


death, in a word

by subwaywalls



Category: Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Temporary Character Death (Respawn Mechanics), Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 14:08:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29809569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subwaywalls/pseuds/subwaywalls
Summary: Three times someone refused to die.(a love letter to survival.)
Relationships: Technoblade & Philza
Comments: 12
Kudos: 59





	death, in a word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1\. philza minecraft.

Scheduled massacres aren’t really Philza’s thing.

He’s not bad at them—quite the opposite, seeing as he’s lasted over halfway through the game on his very first showing—but it’s not his preferred environment.

Survival, though?

That’s well within his purview.

The leaf-littered ground crunches softly underfoot as he strides through the forestry, keeping an eye on the enchanted compass hooked to his belt. At this stage, with barely a dozen remaining contestants and his assigned teammate already slain, Philza knows that avoidance will keep him alive longer than swordsmanship. 

Not too much longer, since he’ll be easy prey for those who’ve fought and won their pick of loot from everyone else that died along the way, but that’s fine. Unlike most of the people here, Philza’s not here to win.

He’s here to see.

(He’s here to  _ be _ seen.)

The compass arrow abruptly swivels around, pointing somewhere off to his left. Mid’s in that direction, so whoever it’s pointing to is probably a well-stacked player who got bored enough to start patrolling. 

Not a good sign. 

Philza looks over in that direction as he starts backing away. The treeline stretches on for a bit, obscuring the plains at mid, but it can’t hide the faint warble of a voice coming in from the distance. He can’t pick out words, only the loud and brash and confident tone, but the fact that someone is speaking at all means they’re probably with their teammate.

Philza breathes in, flattens his wings from where they strain anxiously against the back of his golden chestplate, and backs up further. He’s moving slower than they are, judging from the compass ticking down the distance between them like a countdown, but he doesn’t make a run for it yet.

The voice grows louder, closer, before lilting into a brief quiet. A beat passes, and then it rises again with urgent excitement, punctuated by a few branches snapping in quick succession.

They’re definitely heading for him now. Philza doesn’t bother watching the numbers on his compass nosedive as the other players rush in, instead keeping his eyes peeled across the shrubbery, straining to spot them before they get close enough to engage.

He holds his ground against everything in him that shrieks to run, determined to make sure, determined to choke down that instinctive throbbing flinch in his chest until—there! 

The barest swirl of a smoke plume curls around a distant tree, just a hint of ember-lit grey. As it tilts more clearly into view, so does the glistening, sparkling mist of diamond dust beside it.

Two different auras. Two players.

That’s all Philza needs.

He whips around and runs. Every instinct that’s kept him alive for years chafes at him now, driving him faster, telling him this isn’t a fight he can win, insisting that he’s better off booking it until the undead falter and the monstrous lose interest.

But these pursuers aren’t mobs, and his wings can’t spread wide with so much armor in the way. He’s not meant to fly. The laws of reality are different here. 

Just running won’t get him anywhere. They’re too close to lose, and at this rate they’ll either run him down or drive him into the world border. 

But that doesn’t mean Philza has nowhere to go.

He leaps. He clears a full block and a half and lands heels first on the side of a tree, heels digging into the bark. Not many fighters are well-versed in vertical space beyond the logistics of a basic foot trap, which means Philza’s back in the advantage as his pursuers waste precious seconds skidding to a halt and trying to figure out what he’s going for.

The one with smoking embers at their back is drawing a bow, but too slowly; Philza pushes off, summoning an iron sword to hand as he falls upon them.

The blade itself is mediocre at best—imperfectly balanced, of rushed make, and nowhere near the enchanted grace of  _ Hiasobi Benihime _ —but it’s good enough to cut through the bowstring. The wood snaps, its wielder drops it, and in the mayhem Philza nearly manages to bowl them over and jam his sword between their helmet and collarbone.

Their teammate interrupts quickly, forcing Philza back with a sweep of their own iron sword. The blow clangs loudly against his armor, but doesn’t manage to damage anything but the soft metal. Diamond dust sweeps in with them as though on a gale, the too-bright specks searing dark spots in Philza’s vision as he swings and misses his next attack, only cleaving into the empty space where the player had been a moment before.

He swears under his breath, tucking into a roll to regain a bit of distance. Being able to see but not interact with any of the particles is difficult when he’s trying to strike at the source.

While he tries to blink some of the specks away, he hears air whistle along a blade and blindly scrambles backward to avoid another sword swipe. His heart pounds, stinging against the old flames nestled between his third and fourth ribs.

Despair creeps in, but desperation pushes back harder.

_ I don’t want to die. _

Blood roars in his ears. His wings shudder, and he sees diamond dust twist aside.

Auras are easy to read. The glistering particles shift and sharpen, revealing intent before action, and Philza has plenty of time to raise his sword before the player rushes in and slams their blades together. He tries to break away, but the other twists their guards together in a lock and shouts, “Now, Bad!”

Smoke billows up with firecracker embers and Philza makes one furtive tug at his trapped sword before dropping it completely. He doesn’t completely dodge the enchanted blade that swings at him, wincing as it cuts free a gash along his cheek.

His dropped sword is quickly retrieved by the other player, but Philza produces a bow with a twitch of a wrist to stay armed. Unlike them,  _ he _ knows better than to let someone get close enough to cut it; an arrow sinks into the smoke-and-ember player’s arm before they can get in melee range. Philza sprints past them while they’re still reeling from the pain, ignoring the flash of agony in his side as the diamond-duster clips him with a lunging blow.

A tick of damage is worth it. Nothing stands between him and mid, now, and he immediately gathers himself for a dead run towards the center of the map.

It’s not refuge he seeks. Mid isn’t a place of safety, not with so many battle-ready players occupying the area, but at least the ones hunting him will end up in just as much trouble as he is.

Besides, the more people around, the better. Philza’s flightier than most of the blood knights here, quicker to abandon a hopeless situation, and that might prove the better instinct in situations like these.

Philza breaks through the treeline and already sees a couple silhouettes in the distance, the rolling plains offering an open view of his surroundings. He starts towards the figures, gaze locked on the way the edges of their forms twist and distort with auras in flux, only to veer aside as the wind buckles and an axe hurtles over his shoulder.

Nobody can aim and run at the same time but Philza can get close, turning on a dime to flick underpowered shots at the players advancing behind him. 

He turns, aims, and sends an arrow zipping narrowly past his assailants. His next shot finds a home solidly in the smoke-and-ember one’s shoulder, as does the third. Smoke and flame are easier to see through and shoot, unlike the other that’s like looking directly at a prison in the sun.

Philza darts towards the thrown axe and dismisses his bow, yanking the stone weapon from the dirt just in time to meet the diamond-duster crashing down, and the blades shriek as they drag against each other and Philza kicks at him but knows he’s staring down at the end of the line now, with the other teammate catching up and lining up a final blow as Philza struggles, deadlocked in melee without backup or a way out.

_ I don’t want to die, _ cries that age-old part of him, but this time it echoes itself in rose gold and crimson, feathers in hurricane, a jutting tusk that glints as the player all but slams everyone into the ground with the force of a swing—

—Philza sees an opening and takes it, chestplate all but vibrating as his wings buzz and he slams his newfound axe down on solid iron.

The newcomer all but laughs, confronting the diamond-dusted player with all the blood-drunk joy of a warlord in their element. In anyone else, this diamond sword and solid iron armor might have sparked the greatest depths of fear, but Philza’s eyes are set on a back devoid of any dancing particles, no dust or smoke, nothing but the memory of wingbeats over sunbaked islands. “Better run, Skeppy,” lilts playfully,  _ dangerously  _ into the air. “I found you.”

“Techno,” Skeppy grits out through what might have been a teasing grin through the nervous flutter of sparkling dust that surrounds him. “Funny running into you here.”

The names click into place, suddenly, and Philza exhales a sharp laugh. He knows these people, knows Skeppy and Bad and the warrior interceding between them now, and from the way Techno’s gaze locks onto him for a long second before turning back to his foe (prey), Philza figures he doesn’t have much time left in this game.

Not since being noticed by  _ the _ veteran coliseum fighter. But he doesn’t mind. Respawn will be a hassle, as it always is, but he’s done what he came to do.

He sees. He’s  _ seen. _

Like recognizes like, after all.

(None of this stops the massacre, because that’s the nature of the game. In less than a minute, Philza’s golden chestplate will crack open like a chrysalis from one attack or another, and his wings will spring wide and free, iridescent membrane veined in red, glittering and glorious in the sunlight, impossibly fragile and infinitely untouchable for that one singular moment before the magic of the world rips him to pieces.)

* * *

The first and oldest of them was alone when it happened.

He’d been in a cave, elytra too light on his back and the cave too dark on his eyes. When the undead child and hissing spider charged him amidst a swarm of so many more, he fought and fell and clutched at the burning bleeding wound over his heart. 

A shimmering apple, dropped as life fled from his fingers, rolled just barely out of reach.

And still he’d shut his eyes and thought,  _ I don’t want to die. _

( **_IT IS TIME,_ ** roars the universe that spared him for years and years and years, alive in the mobs that watch him die.  **_IT IS TIME._ ** )

( **_YIELD._ ** )

But he’d gasped for breath with failing lungs and thought,  _ I don’t want to die. _

( **_YIELD._ ** )

But he’d fought the stillness of his heart and refused to leave his cooling body,  _ I don’t want to die _ screaming in terror through him because there is so much love in the world that is his and he poured too much of himself into it, and the thing about players is that they are creatures of will and creation and self-image, and when he opens his eyes to the End coming fast for him he rejects it and the void falls out but the stars remain, and, and, and—

And the cave is quiet, but he is there.

( **_YIELD._ ** )

But he does not.

And so:

( **_IF YOU WILL NOT FOLLOW THE CYCLE OF NATURE,_ ** roars the terrible, furious, calamitous voice of the world and every world and the universe as one and the spark of life itself somewhere in that brilliant abyss,  **_THEN YOU WILL BE REMOVED FROM IT._ ** )

* * *

Philza knows: his world died, but he lived through it.

Philza knows: that should not have happened.

Philza knows: elytra cover the wings of beetles, the sole defense anyone has against the End, so when he sees the starlight aurora at his back for the first time and thinks them wings, they  _ become. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmmm am i about to be unnecessarily poetic and inscrutable again? possibly. (:


End file.
